Innocence Lost
by johnsarmylady
Summary: Much has been asked about the role of Victor Trevor in Sherlock's life, but no-one realised that it was Mycroft's meddling that gave the young genius a distrust of friendship that was to last until his mid-thirties. Part of the non-sequential 'A LIFE BEFORE JOHN' series which will look at Sherlock's early adult life. Rated T for drug use.


**A tale of Sherlock's life before Baker Street and John Watson.**

There was no doubt in Professor Lynard's mind that Sherlock Holmes was the best student on his MChem course, and could be a prime candidate for the Magdalen College debating team as his brother had been, if only he would be a little more sociable.

Glancing around the room at the empty benches that would soon be surrounded by students eagerly attempting their first experiments, he remembered the way Holmes the younger had glanced around on his first day in this very room, completed the experiment and written up his results, then pointed out that he had conducted similar experiments at home and would appreciate being given something a little more difficult.

A reminiscent smile crossed the tutor's lips – one day Holmes would be a great asset to the scientific world...or a modern day Baron Frankenstein.

As if conjured by mere thought, Holmes entered the room, followed by an auburn haired young man, a fellow student. In surprise Lynard raised an eyebrow.

"Professor, we need your help." Without preamble Sherlock launched into his speech. "Victor and I have been working on a theory regarding chemical degradation when exposed to changing elements and the effect this has on their use in medicine."

The dark haired young man looked expectantly at the Professor. Lynard turned his attention to the other student.

"I don't think we've met before, Victor...?"

"Victor Trevor sir," the quietly spoken young man shook the Professor's proffered hand. "Majoring in Pharmacology."

"And you need my help because?"

"We need to use one of the laboratories in our spare time, and for that we either need a tutor in attendance, or written permission from a senior lecturer who knows one or both of us," Victor explained.

"And as we are on different courses of course no-one knows us both," Sherlock added, "but you have known me since I started, and as one of the senior Science lecturers we thought you would be the very person to apply to."

Something in the innocent, guileless expression on Holmes' face made the older man pause. There was something – he couldn't quite put his finger on what – that troubled him about this request. Playing for time he glanced at his watch, and then away to the first year students filing into the room.

"Well," he said finally, stilling Sherlock's impatient fidgeting. "I have a class to oversee – when are you planning on using the lab?"

"We thought this evening would be a good time to start."

Lynard nodded, his eyes narrowing in thought.

"I'll meet you in Lab Four at six, will that suit? I should have had time by then to have written out your formal permission."

Sherlock nodded and without further ado turned to leave. A shy grin spread across Victor's face.

"Thank you sir – I'm sure Sherlock is as grateful as I am..."

"Oh I don't doubt," the Professor returned to his desk and picked up the papers for this lecture. "He never was one for social graces. You'd better hurry if you're going to catch up with him, I'll see you both this evening." And with that he turned to his class, dismissing the two second year students from his mind.

xXx

The lights were on in Lab Four as Professor Lynard walked down the corridor.

He had been sufficiently intrigued about the student who had managed to befriend Holmes that he had made enquiries in the staff common room about him. Learning that he came from a well thought of family in Norfolk and was considered the one student on his Pharmacology course likely to pass with top marks, he gained the impression that Victor was a hard working young man with manners and – it seemed – endless patience with his new anti-social friend.

Sherlock was talking at a rate of knots about the prospect of maybe getting funding for their work, taking it beyond the realms of what is possible in a mere university setting. Victor just grinned, catching the Professor's eye as he walked in and waggling his eyebrows good humouredly.

"What?" Sherlock frowned, then turned to look over his shoulder. "Oh, right."

"Now Holmes," Lynard placed a folded sheet of paper on the workbench, then laid a careful hand over it. "I've taken the liberty of finding out a little about your new friend here…" he nodded towards Victor, waving a hand at Sherlock's indignant face. "and you know my methods by now. You knew I wouldn't just let you loose in here without making sure that you were both dedicated and reliable." He had wanted to use the word stable, but while that may be true of Mr Trevor, it was not a word oft used in relation to Holmes.

Both students nodded and looked expectantly at the lecturer.

"This is a copy of the permission letter I've lodged with the office, and you need to have this with you whenever you are in here in case you are challenged – you will note that it says that you are expected to both be here, no lone working in the lab – is that understood?" He handed the paper over and waited expectantly.

Both students scanned the letter.

"Thank you Professor Lynard." Sherlock smiled one of his rare, genuine smiles. "We three may go down in medical history as leaders in the field of chemical pharmacology."

xXx

Quite how Mycroft had come to hear about the work he was doing Sherlock was unsure, but he could make an educated deduction that it was less omniscient powers, more paid informants within the university. However he found out, it resulted in his new friend being thoroughly investigated, his family background researched, and more distressing, Sherlock had to endure a visit from his interfering brother.

"Why must you be so very contrary?" The young man demanded of his older sibling. "You bemoan the fact that I cannot find likeminded students to 'socialise' with, yet when I do you poke and pry into their lives."

He leapt to his feet and started to pace around his small room.

"What does it matter that the man made his fortune in Australia, mining for gold?"

"There would be no problem at all, were it not for the fact that your friend's father seems not to have existed before he turned up some thirty years ago among the gold mines of Western Australia." Mycroft's eyes never left his brother. "Then he arrived in England twenty years ago with a new wife and enough money to buy a country pile in Norfolk outright, yet still he had enough money to live well and pay the fees for his only son's private education – there is something in the equation that doesn't add up Sherlock."

"Only because that is what you want to believe." Sherlock spat back. "You never really wanted me to find friends, you want to take great delight in telling Mummy that I'm a hopelessly lost cause- well this time Mycroft it's not going to work."

Rolling his eyes Mycroft attempted to calm his brother and persuade him that nothing could be further from the truth; that he only wanted to meet Victor and discuss with them both the work that they were doing, but Sherlock would have none of it, flinging himself onto his bed and turning his back on the other man.

After nearly half an hour of trying to get Sherlock to talk to him, Mycroft gave up, and having let himself out of the student lodgings he made his way to the porter's lodge and enquired after his brother's senior science lecturer.

xXx

Some months later, with his brother's visit long since forgotten, Sherlock and Victor returned from spending the last two weeks of the Christmas holiday with the latter's family and flung themselves into their studies and their extra-curricular pursuits.

They worked long hours, and even Sherlock – who often survived on very little sleep – found their long hours tiring.

"Lynard almost caught me falling asleep in his lecture today." He sighed, walking into Lab Four with Victor one evening. "Pulled me up as I was leaving, asked if everything was okay."

With a shrewd glance he looked at his friend.

"You don't seem to be suffering…."

Victor smiled and closed the door behind them.

"I have help." He said cryptically.

Patiently Sherlock waited for him to continue.

With an over-exaggerated care, Victor looked all around them, checked the door once more, then sidled up to stand by the work bench. From his pocket he retrieved a small plastic bag, and Sherlock looked in interest at the white powder.

"Cocaine." Victor whispered conspiratorially. "Not for the faint hearted. You want some?"

Sherlock's eyes were alight with curiosity.

"How…..?"

Victor drew a slim box from his jacket pocket, and placed it on the bench. Sherlock reached out and opened it. Inside lay two disposable hypodermic needles.

"I always carry at least one spare, just in case." Victor smiled

"In case?"

Victor winked and started mixing the cocaine solution.

"I'll make this a very weak solution, as it's your first time….."

"What makes you think that?"

Raising an eyebrow, Victor gave the other student a knowing look.

"Trust me." As he talked the auburn haired man took hold of Sherlock's arm and rolled up his sleeve. From another pocket he pulled a silk tie, and tied it tightly around the other man's arm.

"Make a fist." He instructed, and Sherlock did as he was told.

With swift, practiced movements Victor slipped the needle into the distended vein, then slowly pushed the still warm fluid in.

Sherlock was fascinated by the sensation of heat and ice flooding along his blood vessels, and as the effect spread he could feel his heart beat increase, racing along in time to the rush of the drug, and his eyes and mind saw everything with perfect clarity. He grinned and rocked a little unsteadily on his feet.

"Sit down." Victor grinned back. "You can work just as well sitting as standing."

"Is it always this….this….invigorating?" Sherlock breathed.

"Oh it gets much better, I promise you."

"Brilliant!"

xXx

The first indication Mycroft had that there was something amiss was when Professor Lynard phoned him in the middle of a working day to discuss Sherlock's behaviour.

Hearing who was on the line the elder Holmes sibling rolled his eyes and accepted the call.

"Professor, what can I do for you?" he greeted the academic smoothly. "Nothing untoward with Sherlock and Victor's research is there?"

The older man cleared his throat nervously.

"Mr Holmes, I'm afraid that Sherlock doesn't seem quite himself lately, and myself and some of his other lecturers are becoming quite concerned…"

"Not himself how?" Suddenly Mycroft was all attention, sitting up ramrod straight in his chair and pressing a buzzer on his desk. As he listened to the other man's stammered explanation he waited, his eyes on the office door, and as soon as his secretary entered he mouthed the word 'car'. She returned to her office and arranged for a car to be ready straight away.

As the car sped towards Oxfordshire, Mycroft turned Lynard's words over in his mind:

"_He attends most of his classes, probably more than most other students, but his attitude has…"_

"_Well? Has what?"_

"_It's hard to explain. He approaches his experiments with an almost manic fervour, and while his speech has always been fast, it generally has also been coherent. Mr Holmes, your brother's speech borders on gibberish at times, he speaks at such speed, yet if we say anything he either collapses in fits of giggles or he puts the transgressor's personal life on show for the rest of the staff and students to hear." The lecturer drew a deep breath._

"_You must understand Mr Holmes, if you cannot talk some sense into your brother I fear he will have to be rusticated for the rest of the term."_

And so Mycroft found himself making the sixty mile journey west to Magdalen College.

xXx

The student that met Mycroft and escorted him to Lynard's office was a thin, spotty youth with no dress sense and even less conversation, but in his present mood this suited Mycroft.

Knocking, the boy opened the door and stepped back to allow the junior government official to enter, then closed the door silently behind him.

To Mycroft's surprise Lynard was not alone. Standing by the window was a student of a similar age to Sherlock, tall, auburn haired and self- assured.

With a quick, practiced look he deduced that the young man was Sherlock's new friend, Victor Trevor, and that for all his confident demeanour there were tell-tale nervous tics that gave that impression the lie.

Lynard too looked far more nervous than he had sounded on the telephone earlier in the day.

"What has happened?"

The rooms two occupants glanced at each other; and the younger man seemed to nod agreement before speaking.

"Sherlock has gone, Sir." He said quietly. "I went to his room a short while ago and it's empty."

"And where do you think he's hiding himself?"

"We don't believe he's hiding." The Professor confessed. "Trevor here found a significant amount of his clothing and books gone, along with his backpack."

"It was the same pack he brought to my house when he came to stay, Sir." Victor added earnestly. "And all his favourite clothes."

"And you are familiar with my brother's clothing? His favourite clothing?" Mycroft's voice dropped menacingly, and the younger man paled.

"We spend a lot of time together Sir," he said hurriedly. "You get to know these things."

Another knock at the door heralded the arrival of the university's security officer. The expression on his face told its own tale – Sherlock Holmes was nowhere to be found in the university or its grounds. When the officer had left Mycroft turned his attention once more to Sherlock's friend.

"So when did you last see him?"

Victor looked uncomfortable, his face reddened and he looked as if he might cry at any moment.

Mycroft frowned.

Professor Lynard stepped across to stand next to the young man and placed a comforting hand on his arm.

"Mr Trevor was at his family home the weekend before last, and sadly while he was there his father passed away."

"Committed suicide!" The young man exclaimed angrily, looking away from the two men, hurt and ashamed.

"Mr Trevor, there is no need…."

"Yes there is! He was ranting that last day – ranting about prying busybodies and betrayal…." As suddenly as it had started his vehement oratory stopped, and Victor pushed his way out of the room.

As the door swung shut behind him the lecturer heaved a gusty sigh.

"He only returned to his student residence last night – I know he and your brother met briefly then, but Mr Trevor had a counselling meeting with his own Course Director, and so I doubt they met again after that."

"But you can't be sure?" Mycroft frowned over his shoulder, looking at the now closed door.

Not waiting for a reply he turned, opening the door and gesturing to the other man to follow him.

"I want to see my brother's room."

xXx

Sherlock moved his head, his neck was stiff and for some reason there was a howling gale blowing down on him from above his head.

He frowned.

Maybe it wasn't actually blowing down on him, as it would appear that he was lying down.

With a groan he tried to open his eyes, but the lids seemed to be glued shut. Wearily a hand moved, trembling to rub at them, his fingers coming away gungy, as if he was suffering from a nasty case of conjunctivitis – maybe he was, he mused. Or maybe whatever that latest batch of white powder was, it wasn't just cocaine.

Little by little Sherlock started to regain control of his mind, if not his body, and he was startled to hear someone shouting at him.

"Oi! I won't tell you again mate, you can't sleep in there." It said fairly authoritatively. "This is a kid's playground, not a bloody hostel for the homeless."

"Not h'mlessss." The words dragged themselves out from his throat, and he wondered at what point he had swallowed razorwire. "'m stud'nt"

Squinting through still sticky eyes he could just about make out the shape of a man peering at him from above his head. Slowly stretching his long arms upwards Sherlock tried to touch the shape, giggling when his arms wouldn't obey him properly.

Suddenly a hand grasped his wrist and he was hauled unceremoniously from his sleeping place.

"Hey!"

"Come on sleeping beauty. A concrete tunnel in a playground is really not the place for you." Detective Sergeant Gregory Lestrade pulled the lanky young man to his feet and leaned him against the side of the concrete structure. "I hope you haven't pissed in there mate, that's meant for kids to have adventures in."

"Like pirates?" Sherlock giggled again as his rubber legs refused to hold him upright and he leaned drunkenly against the officer.

Lestrade shook his head, exasperated.

"Dimmock – just check that he's not left anything nasty in there."

The detective constable pulled a face but did as he was asked, crawling into the tunnel and returning moments later with a backpack in his hands.

"Just this." He said, handing it over to his senior officer.

Lestrade turned to the crowd of interested onlookers, one of whom had reported the vagrant sleeping rough.

"Okay folks, there's really nothing to see here. Mrs Dawson?..."

A thin lady of indeterminate age with straggly brown hair stepped forward.

"….Thanks for reporting this – if you can just make sure my colleague here has your details, in case we need to talk to you again…" With a brief jerk of his head in the woman's direction he sent Dimmock to collect her address while he manhandled the still giggling man into the back of the car and dropped the backpack into the boot.

Sherlock had mentally sobered up a little on the drive to the police station, and he asked just to be dropped at the university gates.

"University? Which campus?" Although Lestrade had no intention of returning him there yet, it would be helpful to know where he had come from.

"Not campus – Magdalen College."

The car screeched to a halt in the spot reserved for CID officers.

"Magdalen? No such campus mate." Lestrade killed the engine and looked at his passenger, whose body had not yet caught up with his mind as he was still slumped in the back beside Dimmock. "You _are_ at Greenwich University?"

This question seemed to jolt Sherlock out of his lethargy, and as the two officers helped him out of the car and into the building.

"I'm in Greenwich?" he asked incredulously.

"Course you are chum." Dimmock chuckled. "Where did you expect to be?"

"Oxford." He was fed up with this game and just wanted to get back to his room, but it seemed his new friend had other plans. Sherlock leant tiredly against the custody sergeant's desk.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I'm a chemistry student at Magdalen College Oxford." He announced in what he believed was his haughtiest tone. Unfortunately as he spoke his legs chose that particular moment to give out on him, and he slid gracelessly to the floor.

Hauling him back to his feet, Lestrade instructed the custody sergeant to book him in and then get the FME to take a look at him as it was obvious that he was as high as a kite. He left Dimmock to assist while he went back to retrieve their prisoner's belongings.

xXx

"My brother didn't leave of his own volition." Mycroft stood in the middle of Sherlock's room, looking around at the evidence of someone having packed quickly before leaving, and he knew that 'someone' wasn't his brother. "He's executed a disappearing act like this before, the first time was from home, but other times from Harrow which has frankly better security that you have here - "

"We shouldn't need security to keep students in…."

Mycroft waved the Professor to silence as he continued " – but be that as it may there is a pattern to his modus operandi. He would leave the room looking as if he intended to return, not with drawers left pulled out, and wardrobe doors open, it's simply not his style."

"Maybe he panicked when he found out we had involved you?"

"Who told him?"

"Well," Lynard looked flustered. "I assumed you telephoned him…."

"Action that would have guaranteed my brother wasting my time, and yours, by playing hard to find." Glancing out of the window at the students milling around the grounds, Mycroft smoothed a hand over his hair. "I think we should have another word with Victor Trevor, there's something he's not telling us."

xXx

"Jesus Christ!" The exclamation burst from Greg Lestrade as he tipped out the contents of the backpack.

Underneath the skinny jeans and hoodies were hidden more than a dozen large bags of white powder.

Dimmock whistled softly between his teeth. "Is that what I think it is?"

"Well if it isn't, then he's selling some white powdery stuff disguised as coke or heroin, and that is worse than straight dealing – that's playing Russian roulette with other people's lives for profit." Lestrade looked weary beyond his years. "Has the FME seen him yet?"

"Yeah, he's high but coming down, there are quite a few track marks on his arms and a few on his legs – spreading it about so he doesn't burn out any single vein – Doc thinks he's been clever about that, giving his body recovery time will prolong the viability, she said."

Lestrade grunted a response and turned his attention back to the prisoner's possessions.

Further examination revealed a selection of disposable hypodermics tied together with an old Harrow School tie, and a largish wooden box with a set of miniature scales, a selection of empty bags and a small medical grade funnel .

"Okay," Lestrade stepped away and peeled off his latex gloves. "Let's see what Mr Sherlock Holmes has to say about this." He waved the forensic support officer into the room. "Let's get this lot photographed and fingerprinted for good measure – if he's dealing then let's make an airtight case."

xXx

Mycroft stared, stoney faced as the security guard stammered his news. Victor Trevor had left the university grounds straight after his last encounter with Sherlock's brother and the Professor, he had been seen driving his battered old car like a bat out of hell through the gates, nearly knocking over a handful of tourists taking photographs of the historic buildings.

"I want to know the registration of his car – you will, I trust, have a note of it at the gatehouse…?"

The security guard nodded.

"Then get it for me." Mycroft reached into his pocket for his mobile, punching a number into the speed-dial.

He turned his back, speaking fast and low to the person on the other end of the phone, taking the note bearing the car registration number without so much as glancing at the guard, reading it into his phone, listening to his staff member promising to make things happen.

xXx

"That's not possible!" Sherlock declared. Having been given the all-clear to be questioned, he was sitting in the sparsely furnished interview room opposite Lestrade and Dimmock. Another officer, uniformed, stood by the door.

"I'm afraid these say otherwise." Lestrade laid out several photographs on the table in front of him. "Do you deny that this is the contents of your backpack, that this is your property."

Sherlock looked at him.

"The clothes are mine, but the other? I'm a user, not a dealer."

"So the needles…"

"Are mine." The young man sighed. "And I assume the Harrow tie is mine, although I don't usually have it tied around my kit…"

"No, I imagine it's usually around your arm." Dimmock sneered.

A small frown creased Sherlock's brow.

"Hmmm." He muttered. "But not unless I'm on my own, and the last time…" his voice trailed off and his frown deepened.

"Where's Victor?"

"Who?" Lestrade gestured to his Detective Constable to make a note of the name.

"Victor Trevor, we were together in my room…."

"And that's your room at…?"

"Magdalen College Oxford." The young man sounded fed up with repeating himself. "Victor had just come back from his parent's house, his father had committed suicide and he was feeling down, so we decided to get high."

"And you always get high together?"

"It helps with our research – clarifies our thoughts."

"Yeah, and if I'd had a pound for every time I heard that, I'd be a millionaire by now." Lestrade swiped a hand over his face. "We need to put the word out that there could be another student wandering round high, or collapsed somewhere. Mr Holmes here will give you a description."

Shoving away from the table the Detective Sergeant left Dimmock to carry out his instructions while he returned to the office to update his DI.

xXx

Abandoning Oxford Mycroft returned to London, grudgingly trusting the Oxfordshire force to do their best to work out the mystery of his missing brother and the errant Victor Trevor, meanwhile he needed to speak to one of his colleagues about the use of certain assets and capabilities.

xXx

"What? That's not possible!"

"I'm afraid it is not only possible, it's the only answer." Assistant forensics officer Philip Anderson passed his report to the Detective Sergeant. "There are no fingerprints on any of the bags, not the filled ones nor the empty ones - there's none on the dealing kit either." The young scientist scratched at his beard. "It doesn't make sense."

Lestrade however was thinking hard.

"Actually Anderson, it may make perfect sense." He said as he picked up the report and headed back to the holding cells.

xXx

Matt Ridley, Mycroft's equivalent in MI6, was more than willing to give his Intelligence Officers the task of seeking out the missing students, smiling empathetically – he too had a wayward sibling – and assuring his colleague that they would soon pick up evidence of where the MI5 man's younger brother had been taken.

Back in his own office Mycroft called in several of his own people.

"Any news on the car?" he asked without looking up from the papers on his desk.

"It's been found, sir, abandoned in central London."

Mycroft frowned.

"Whereabouts?"

"Near Liverpool Street station." The officer replied. "It was left at the taxi rank about an hour ago."

"Right." Mycroft came to a swift decision. "I want all trains that left Liverpool Street bound for Norfolk since the car was abandoned traced and searched – if Trevor is heading for his family home I would prefer him to be apprehended before he reaches it."

"And that doesn't mean you stop searching." Mycroft informed the other officers. "I don't trust this young man, he may be hoping that he can throw us off the scent by appearing to run for home. You have the University photograph, get out and find him."

Once the men had left to do his bidding, Mycroft sat and stared at his hands.

"Oh Sherlock, what have you done now?"

xXx

Sherlock and Lestrade stared at each other across the table.

"Look," Lestrade tried once more. "I don't know what the issue is with your family, but the signs are all there – someone has set you up to look like a dealer…."

"So you can't charge me, because without fingerprint evidence it won't stand up in court." Sherlock sneered. "I think you will find that unless you want a very expensive and pointless waste of the public funds on your record, you will let me go."

The Detective sergeant reached for his patience.

"All we want is the name of a family member who we can not only ask to come and pick you up, but also to advise that…."

"I have been set up with a view to disgracing my family, yes, I understand all of that, and am quite capable…."

"Actually, no you're not." Lestrade spoke softly into the young man's haughty words. "The FME will not allow us to release you without a responsible – sober – member of your family to take you home."

"This is totally unfair!" Slamming his fist down on the table, Sherlock glared angrily at the two officers sitting calmly opposite him. "This is Mycroft's doing, isn't it?"

"Mycroft?" Lestrade repeated, puzzled.

"Yes, Mycroft Holmes, my interfering brother – he's put you up to this hasn't he?"

"How are you spelling that name?" Dimmock asked.

Sherlock sneered and spelled it out, adding "He works for the government – as if you didn't already know."

Lestrade nodded towards the door, and Dimmock left, taking his notebook with him and heading for the nearest phone.

"Look, Sherlock, it would help us – and get you released quicker – if you just give us your brother's phone number."

"Why?"

The question threw Lestrade, and he frowned at the younger man.

"Why are you not 'arresting me for my own good'? Isn't that what you people do?"

"I happen to think that, for your own good I need to hand you over to the care of your family." Greg lowered his voice so that the uniformed officer standing behind him by the door couldn't hear. "I also believe that you are just an addict – a clever addict, but an addict none the less and someone, maybe this Victor guy that you said you were with, has dosed you with enough to knock you out and then loaded your bags with all the makings of a dealer." Drawing a breath, hazel eyes met silver-blue. "The whole thing looks to me as if, had you died he wouldn't have cared less, and when eventually you were found you would have been just another statistic to us and still would have brought shame on your family."

Sherlocks eyes narrowed as he thought about the officer's words. His last memory was of Victor passing him a filled syringe, telling him he needed this but he wanted Sherlock with him; that he didn't want to be alone, and the curly haired student cursed silently. This man Lestrade was right – it looked horribly like his only friend had betrayed him, tried to murder him.

Sullenly he gave Lestrade his brother's mobile number, then folded his arms on the table in front of him and let his head drop to rest on them – defeated.

xXx

The Government man and the Detective Sergeant sat opposite each other in one of the 'soft' interview rooms usually reserved for distressed youngsters or rape victims.

Mycroft glanced around at the muted décor, soft blues and creams, all designed to put a person at ease, then returned his unblinking gaze to the man in front of him.

"I thought this would be better than the office or one of the usual interview rooms." Lestrade felt a little uncomfortable under the other man's scrutiny. "I wanted to talk to you about your brother."

"If you are releasing him then I really don't see that there's anything to discuss."

The arrogance in his words made Greg's hackles rise.

"Mr Holmes, I've stuck my neck out for your brother because I saw….." he reached for the right words. "I saw despair when he realised that this was more than just a matter of being caught using, that his bag contained enough cocaine to put him away for a very long time had his so-called friend not slipped up and omitted to put the bags in his hands. Your brother is…."

"Still none of your concern Sergeant Lestrade. My family are grateful for your consideration, and for your discreet handling of this case, but if you are finished, I would like to take my brother home."

Gritting his teeth the officer shook his head and rose to his feet.

"Wait here." He ground out and exited the room before he said something that he regretted.

Opting to collect the detainee himself, he collected the paperwork and headed down to the custody suite.

A very subdued Sherlock Holmes walked out to where his backpack and clothes were spread out on a table.

"I need you to check that all you possessions are here and intact," Greg explained. "I appreciate you didn't pack the bag yourself, so I have the evidence photos here for you to check against."

Silver-blue eyes quickly scanned the items, noting the folded Harrow tie, and a thin smile creased his lips.

"You know I'll be able to get more needles."

"Yes, but I can't let you take the ones we found."

Sherlock nodded, packed his things and, slinging the bag over his shoulder, walked beside the Detective.

With the interview room in sight, Greg made a swift decision and put a restraining hand on the young man's arm. Sherlock looked at him, a questioning eyebrow raised.

"Look, you've no reason to believe that I want to help you, but still," Greg reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his business card and scribbled a number on the back. "Take this, it's got all my official numbers, but that's my personal number – if you need….well….help, assistance, whatever…" his voice trailed off under that cool stare, but to his surprise long pale fingers plucked the card from his grasp.

"Thank you Mr Lestrade."

It was said so softly that Greg wasn't sure he had actually heard correctly, but nevertheless he moved forward, delivering the errant student to his older brother.

Not a word was said between the Holmes brothers, and leading Sherlock out Mycroft dismissed Lestrade and his help with a brisk nod.

As he watched them walk away he wondered what would become of the lanky young man whose intelligence showed such potential, and whose addictive nature threatened to cut that short.


End file.
